


Down a Dark Road Travelled

by Corycides



Series: Hands On [8]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles has taken everything from Monroe - perhaps it is time for Monroe to take something back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down a Dark Road Travelled

Neat, black stitches scrawled over Bass' abdomen, pulling the skin together in puckered, new patterns. Monroe traced the wound with his fingers, feeling the dry, sickly heat of his skin. If it didn't kill him, it would be one more scar to add to his collection.

Back before it all went to shit, he used to get rat-assed drunk with Miles when it was bad – when they couldn't get the blood from under their fingernails, when the dead outnumbered the living, when the only rescue someone wanted was death – and they'd compare scars. At last count, Miles had been ahead by knife scar along his thigh and a rough scrape of scar tissue on his forearm.

Maybe this would put Bass ahead. Not that they'd ever know now. 

He taped the gauze back over his ribs and walked over to his desk, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. Old-fashioned pain relief. There was a stoppered vial of morphine on the dresser in his bedroom, but – Bass took a mouthful of whiskey – he didn't exactly trust himself with it. The liquor was manageable, socially acceptable, being strung-out on poppy was...less so. 

There were women Bass could send for – a menu of pretty girls who lay somewhere in the no-man's land between hooker and mistress. He wouldn't be good company though. Not that he cared if they enjoyed his conversation – exchanges tended to be short and order-based – but he wanted to hurt someone tonight. 

Not play hurt. Not slap and tickle and listen for the safe word. Hurt. Broken knuckles and split skin and it didn't matter if it was their blood or his. The best part was not stopping when they begged. 

It wasn't about sex. That wasn't. His tastes continued relatively vanilla in that department. He just wanted to hurt someone and he called someone to wrap their wet, pink lips around his other urges, they'd do well enough for the bloody ones too. So he sprawled alone in his office, one leg hooked up over the arm of the chair, with his trousers shoved low around his hips. His hand cupped the half-hard length of his cock, dragging his hand along it in slow strokes. 

'There has to be a part of you that's still you.'

For a second she was there – a flash of blood red hair and soft lips pliant under his, blood on his hands and her emptying out of her face as she died. Pain cracked through him, a cold swell of despair, and he shoved her down and away. He couldn't afford the time to feel, not about her. It would eat him.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, focusing on the ache between his legs and the hot burn of pain in his ribs. It scraped out anything soft inside him, and he let anger sop into the hollows. 

Miles. General Matheson of the...Rebels. If he'd asked, Bass would have given him anything he needed, wanted. Instead he'd taken it all; he'd left Bass with...nothing, and he called Bass a 'mad dog' in his rhetoric? Maybe Bass should put some effort into taking something from him, something that he cared about.

His tongue slicked wet over his lower lip. The girl. The Matheson girl, with all that idealism in those big, blue eyes. Miles' niece, Rachel's daughter and a rebel in her own, pain in the ass right. If he had her, if he took her - oh, that would break them all.

Tawny blonde hair twisted through his fingers instead of red and a mouth he'd have to take, that wouldn't be offered.

He rewrote the scene with Rachel, editing out Strausser and his gun. Instead his hands on the girl, fingers splaying over her tanned stomach, and his mouth on her tensed throat. Sweat and salt sour on his lips as he dragged her taut, resisting body back against him. Rachel's cold, contemptuous eyes full of tears and Miles tied to a chair – cuffed, Bass' brain corrected, to something heavy – as he promised Bass anything if he'd stop.

Except Miles didn't have anything to offer Bass, not any more. 

His cock thickened between his fingers, want heavy in his balls, but it wasn't quite... Charlotte relaxed in his arms and curled her fingers through his, pulling his hand up to cup her breast. The squeeze of his hand made her breath hitch and Miles swear with vicious, impotent resentment.

Willing. He wanted her willing – no, eager – and his. Matheson and Monroe – that had been all he ever needed, the rest had just been trappings. If he couldn't have Miles, she'd do. Sweet and soft in his arms, Miles watching impotently as Bass touched her, took her – in all the ways Miles could never have her.

He let Rachel fade away and imagined fucking Charlotte on the table, long legs wrapped around his hips and her body clutching at his cock as he drove into her. Bass tightened his grip around his cock, moving his hips up into his hand, as his nerves jerked and jangled in his groin. She'd look good in black, wearing his insignia at her throat. Remade in his image.

Ruined, just like him. 

'Some things are more important than family,' she said, mouth wet against his skin as she mouthed the words against his shoulder. 'You're more important than family.' 

He twisted his hand in that thick mass of hair and pulled her head back. For fifteen years the most important people in his life, the ones who occupied his mind waking and sleeping, were Mathesons. Miles and Rachel, and Charlotte was the perfect mixture of both. He kissed her hard, bruising and scraping the soft curve of her mouth, and glanced over at Miles.

He imagined Miles' face as he saw Bass fuck his pretty, precious niece, the despair on his face as she begged him for it. Bass grimaced and pressed his fist against his mouth, chewing on his knuckles. Pleasure raked through him, muscles clenching in his thighs and stomach, and spilled come over his fingers with a shuddering jerk of his hips.

It was better than killing Miles. He slouched down, breathing raggedly, and pressed his hand against his aching side. Breaking him like that, breaking her, would hurt him so much more. Bass leaned his head back and licked come off his fingers, imagining the way her generous mouth would pucker around his fingers...his cock.

He'd keep Miles alive to watch that. To watch Bass win in the only way that mattered. He had family did he? Let him see what it was like to have them turn on him.


End file.
